79°

Every day on my way to work I drive over the LA River, that pathetic ribbon snaking through its narrow, shallow concrete channel. Hemmed in, graffitied, emasculated, helpless to determine its own course, yet bravely reflecting the glitter of the Pacific, just a few impassable strip malls away.

I can't adequately express my relief that is is 79° outside, not 103°. The oppressive heat of the LA summer saps my energy and motivation. Everyone said it would be better when I moved to Hollywood from the Valley, and maybe it is – marginally – but I work at a studio in Burbank, where venturing outside the air-conditioned building means instant suffocation, and even with my AC blasting at home these last few months, I couldn't sleep, and it was too hot and bright already at 7 a.m. to run with my dog in the hills. Next summer I swear I'm getting a place at the beach, a pied-à-plage.

I love the creative serendipity that happens when I start getting into writing mode: suddenly my ears are pricked for snatches of dialogue, relevant stories jump out at me from the news, seemingly random ideas connect in unpredictable ways. Today my therapist uttered a line that is perfect for my new The Closer spec script. To his amusement, I wrote it down – I've learned that if I don't jot stuff down immediately, it's lost. I hate waking up the next morning and wondering what I thought was so brilliant. I got a tiny little voice recorder and I do use it sometimes, but mostly I still scribble near-illegible notes on whatever scrap of paper happens to be lying around. Oh, the mountain of paper on my writing desk!

So in addition to my essays and poems and now this blog, I have my Closer spec to write, and my pilot and feature scripts to overhaul before the end of the year (self-imposed deadlines: not as effective as externally imposed ones, but better than no deadlines at all). The better to prepare for next staffing season.

I drove back from therapy through the hills under the Hollywood sign, that beautiful near-Mediterranean vista with its sage and yucca and storybook villas, slowing as I passed the Hollywood reservoir with my windows open and the sound of dry leaves skittering and the barest hint of an LA autumn in the air.